Mixtape
by CandiedStatic
Summary: If there was anything that Dean Winchester knew about- minus hunting, because his understanding of that was vital, -and Sam Winchester, because his understanding of that came and went like hot flashes- it was music. - A collection of song inspired Destiel ficlettes
1. Intro

Castiel was a 90s mix tape jammed somewhere underneath the Impala's passenger seat, probably wedged right up next to the console, just out of dean's reach.

If there was anything that Dean Winchester knew about- minus hunting, because his understanding of that was vital, -and Sam Winchester, because his understanding of that came and went like hot flashes- it was music. Or rather, the music dean knew was more than just a catchy song on the radio or an old classic that you just couldn't get out of your head. Music to Dean was a second language and it spoke to him so furiously that he had no other option than to make it his own.

It had been obvious early on that Dean had a particular taste in things. He liked toy cars and all things loud, fast, and eye-catching. Dean liked his women with spirit and flattering curves. He liked his wheels vintage, he liked his drinks strong… in a line… with little space for a devil's advocate, he liked his music with guitar and sex appeal. Give him a jam with some soul and his inner savant took off like a rocket ship.

The stars were barely there streaks of light in a tunnel of face melting rock god goodness.

Oh, Dean knew music.

Of course, he also had his own style, which vocalized itself often at Sam when a request for a radio station change appeared somewhere between hours six and eight in the Impala. The younger of the Winchester brothers had learned that it was impossible to negotiate when it came to what was listened to during their hunts, but god if he had to listen to Renegade one more time without complaint, he might just throw himself out the passenger door to speed his painful death up a little.

What Sam was unaware of, however, was exactly how far Dean's musical tastes reached. Because in Dean's opinion, If one was to speak in a lyrical language, one must also have a diverse vocabulary. In order to understand the people around him, he had to understand their tune as well. For the most part, this was unbearably easy. People practically looked their part, lived their genre, and sang their songs straight at him. They were born into a world of hummed refrains and chanted choruses. Music was as familiar as wallpaper. He could pick up a girl easily at the bar with a well-placed Billy Idol lyric. From there it was all Rebel Yell.

And then there was Cas.

Castiel, with his trench coat at varying stages of dirty, his tie all askew, and his unholy –or maybe it was too holy- blue eyes. Castiel with his soundless disappearances and his wordless glances. Castiel who was completely and totally off tune.

Dean found himself lost.

And then he found himself- wedged under the passengers seat, tucked tightly against the console- one afternoon whilst digging Sam's healthy trash out of his precious baby's belly. He didn't even remember that particular mix tape. It was a foreigner amongst his collection, but he popped it into the mouth of the cassette player as a temporary holding place until he could figure out what else to do with it.

The impala's speakers flared to life with a song Dean wasn't so well acquainted with, a song he couldn't name, but could place around '93. Sam's laughter came from the direction of the gas station convenient store, followed shortly by, "Dude! That's kind of an odd pick for you."

And Dean knew, well he didn't know, know, but he got the bright glimmer of hope that he could figure it out. Somewhere in the music world, there was something as foreign to him as Castiel was to the waking world. Somewhere, wrapped deep in the 90s alternative scene was the missing circuit.

Dean grinned to himself as his brother slid into the passenger's seat once more.

"Sammy," He said, his tone matter of fact. "How about a change of pace."

* * *

I should specify now that Mixtape will be a collection of Destiel drabbles and oneshots that are _inspired_ by the songs of my choosing. They will NOT be song fics. (I can honestly promise that you will not see song lyrics written between lines of any of these stories) nor will they be sequential or related to each other unless I write to a second song from a previously used band. I fully intend to use this is as a way to play with writing styles and character development without worrying too much about plot. As of this moment I have no idea what kind of story a song might inspire so anticipate seeing some AUs and a range of seriousness.


	2. Bitter Sweet Symphony

So the first story!

Is based on **Bitter Sweet Symphony** by The Verve. The best way to take this story on is to grab the song, throw it on repeat and ignore it while you read. Do let me know what you think or if you have song recommendations. I've got a list going, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't love more.

Warnings: implied sexual situations?

This is very vaguely placed in season five.

* * *

He inhales and the air is damp, like drowning without the fear of death or the pain of water in his lungs. He could feel it though, each drop playing a rhythm on his skin, leaving invisible lines and patters to trace over his shoulders and down his spine. He matches the clear curtain that separates his little moment from the world.

He breathes in, the air is damp, and he falls in love.

But Dean is not one for a committed longing or a soul-burning passion. He loves everything and nothing all at once because he loves the second he is living and then he is moving on, to a new second, a new moment, and the others are left forgotten. Dean loves the grey stripes of light that filtered through the venetian blinds and mold their way over a speckled array of wet droplets on thin plastic. He loves the hot scent of filtered water that tastes like metal and the film that soap creates under his toes. He loves the drying shadow of the rose that hangs from the curtain rail and the dizziness of his fading intoxication. He gives in to the feel of stubble against his belly and the slow moving tongue that follows the path between his rows of muscle.

Beneath his fingers, dark hair is parted without resistance, but he hasn't realized that he is running them through and through the wet waves until soft lips sigh against the space just under his belly button. Cas looks up at him, the blue of his eyes is the only color that Dean can see in the dull morning light and it entrances him. The man on his knees looks like a different person from this angle, lush and soaking wet under the shower's spray. Dean groans involuntarily and thinks about how they got here.

Castiel is not one to love second to second. No. He loves every second. And for every second he has loved, Dean is certain that he has ached an equal amount because Dean is slow on the uptake and even slower on the participation and it has taken two thirds of a bottle of straight whiskey and a shitty fourth of July party at Bobby's house for him to give in to a craving he hadn't even known existed.

Or maybe that is lie.

Maybe it hasn't taken anything more than being surrounded by smiling faces in the lot behind the house. Maybe he had started falling in love with the slow ticking of each passing second when he spotted Castiel across the party and watched the fireworks bleed through the sky behind the other man like rainbow wings. Cas is blue and pink and green and walking towards him as soon as he has Dean's attention. There is no hesitation as he sidestepped the other party goers, the night bathing him in a multifaceted glow. His cheeks are flushed and his gaze unfocused as though he too had consumed just a little more than he is capable of handling. Dean feels camaraderie in that and then lips are on his and he doesn't even fight it.

He can hear the roar of approval from the people around them as though they were underwater, the sound blurs in his head with the feeling of teeth against his jaw. They could have been cheering for anything, the fireworks, the party, another keg, he doesn't know. He sucks the air in and suddenly his time is erratic. He is pushed against the Impala, his back against the driver's window and a warm body at his front. He is being asked if he wants to get out of here. Parties were never really Cas's thing.

He is being shown a silly decorated invitation by Sam early in the morning and informed that yes, they were going and no, there is going to be no talk about hunting, or dying, or the rest of the apocalypse for the entire night. Someone needed a team moral booster and celebrating the birth of the country that is heading headlong into its end in the company of their lousy friends is obviously the best way to do it.

He is being handed a beer by the back door, or maybe it is out towards the road, or on the hood of his car with his brother by his side. Sam claps him on the back and tells him that it is about time they had a break and hey, there is Cas.

He has lips against his and time falters and all he could see were kids with sparklers running in the reflection of Castiel's adoring eyes until his own slipped closed. He focused instead on the feather light touch of hands against his chest and the thundering vibrations from the explosions in his head.

Jo meets him at the door, a tray of deviled eggs in her hands as she passes him on his way out of the kitchen. She smiles up at him honestly and tells him how glad she is to see him in good spirits. Sam needs this break, she insists, he needs this break too. The white gold of her hair is tied in a braid at her shoulder. She walks with a twist of her hips that is instigated by the low heels she wears. He has never seen her in heels before. What does Ellen think of that, he wonders. His lip quirks up and he pushes through the weight of the metal screen door. Jo calls after him only a moment too late. Don't miss the fireworks. They are going to be fantastic.

He is taking a beer from the cooler by the grill and signing himself up for a hamburger for later. Or maybe he is picking up a jello shot from the tray on the checkered picnic table as the last bit of sunlight disappears behind the trees. Maybe he is tasting the whiskey right off Cas's tongue under a shower of sparkling colors.

Maybe he is breathing down water at dawn with his back against cool tiles and his front pressing into capable hands.

Dean lookes up at the star-littered night sky and finishes the last sip in his bottle. The Impala shifts as Sam takes a seat against her hood. Dean agrees with him when he says he'd like to finish the night feeling completely wrecked in the comfort of his bed. He didn't want to wake up until three in the afternoon, which is a likely outcome since that girl, Val, from earlier is looking his way and she's fine. She gives him a little wave and Dean waves back. Sam rolls his eyes. Sam lets out an exasperated laugh. Sam asks the whereabouts of Castiel. Dean drops his hand and inhales his next beer. He doesn't know.

Cas is flush against his side as they battle their way up Bobby's slanted stairs. Dean has a half empty bottle of whiskey clutched between his fingers and it's going fast. Where the fuck did Cas find enough alcohol to get drunk? It doesn't matter. Dean swallows another mouthful of fire and they knock something off the wall. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

Ellen grins at him when he gets out of the car. She greets him with sarcasm and one of the biggest hugs that Dean's received in years. She says he looks like shit, which is half true and half a joke, but he likes the way it fills him up with a sense of home. He likes the way the tacky red, white, and blue decorations are being tied to Bobby's porch railing. The man himself is arguing with Jo about the uselessness of star decorated streamers, but it doesn't seem like he's fighting too hard. Dean suspects that he secretly likes the normalcy that this little improvised picnic fakes. Dean has to admit, though only to himself, that there's a vague memory at the very edges of his brain where his mother takes his picture as his father lights the end of a sparkler and it bursts into life, scaring the both of them.

The light in the room pops and then it's dark. It's hot. It's dark. It's all bright blue and oh. And yes. And good. Dean sighs, Cas hums. There's a tub so this must be the bathroom. Was it always such a tight fit? It ridiculous. And good. It's so good. _Ridiculously_ good. He tastes bourbon. He tastes bile. He swallows and taste's nothing but a tongue against his own. Cas? Yeah, Cas. Oh god, Cas. But he shouldn't say that, should he? That's kind of fucked up in the "has daddy issues" way. But not for him. Only for _him_. What would Sam think? He doesn't give a fuck, not right now anyway. Not while he's seated on the edge of the tub with a real breathing angel in his lap. Oh God. He says it anyway. Oh god. Where did his belt buckle go?

What time is it?

They're in the dark and breathing hard. He drowns and knows nothing but white.

Dean inhales again and he's in Bobby's bathroom. Everything is grey. They're on even ground now, maybe. Dean can't think much past the dull ache that starts where his temple is pressed against the blank tile and runs all the way to the cold porcelain under his knees. The water is running just as cold, but he's spent and wrecked and so very pleased with himself.

He opens his eyes-

"Hello, Dean."

- and the sky is nothing but cerulean fireworks.


	3. All For You

To the tune of: All for You by Sister Hazel

* * *

There is something terribly depressing about stories that start in cafes. Castiel Novak hates them. He hates how beautifully easy it is to lead in with an introduction about hearth-warmed brick walls, polished wood counters, and the scent of hot coffee. He hates that it's almost always gray or snowing outside of the frosted windows that the main character of a story props himself (or herself) up against. How delicately the author describes the frothing sound of foaming milk and the clanking of ceramic mugs! How envious a reader should be of that quiet back corner where someone can tuck themselves away with a disgustingly good book that has about a 47% chance of being a topic of conversation and a 23.3% chance of playing a bigger role in the overall arch of the story. The 26 year old knows for a fact that these writers have never once been in a café because if they had, they would understand that not many cafes have enough space for a "back corner" to exist and if they did, they are probably overrun with a steady stream of loud customers- some families, some students in the middle of exams, and some, just like him, business men on their five second caffeine recharge break.

Castiel hates stories that happen in cafes because they are decidedly predictable. Said protagonist is usually approached by an antagonist that eventually shifts into a friend or possible romance after a long rollercoaster of a conversation that could be either sweet or, more likely, a bit of a struggle. He hates how easy it seems for one human being to stroll up to another, interrupt their daily ritual, and introduce themselves. Castiel has spent at least 8 years hearing stories like these and the last 4 of his life watching the interactions in cafes for signs of legitimacy. There is little interaction outside of friend circles except for the regular approach of a semi-desperate man to a pretty female companion. Even this half-hearted and usually disappointing interaction has begun to bore him.

Castiel Novak hates café stories.

Which only makes it worse when he becomes the unassuming lead of one.

The Grace café doesn't have exposed brick or big, open windows. It's barely wide enough to fit the counter and a row of short tables along the wall with a space to walk between the two. It's a regular tunnel for people in a hurry, funneling them through a quick q&a before sending them off with a steaming hazelnut latte or double skim macchiato. Actually the Black Wing is better known for a particularly tasty assortment of vegan treats and a lava-warm pudding thick hot chocolate that all but suffocates you on the way down. Castiel comes for the simplest cup of black coffee because the café is just across the street from his firm and by saving himself time from the short walk, he can prop himself up at one of the front tables long enough to catch his breath and skim the editorial section of the local newspaper.

There's a pretty blonde barista by the name of Jo Harvelle who greets him with a full-hearted smile on Thursday afternoon and has a cup of coffee on the counter before he has to be bothered with small talk. She's too busy to keep him long anyway. It's another packed day and there's barely enough room to sidestep other customers. They exchange the usual pleasantries, hello, how are you? how has your week been so far? Enjoying the fall while it lasts? Would you like anything else?

Castiel answers them all quickly and vaguely except for the last which gets a very pointed "No. I'm fine, thank you." And that's about as far as he gets into his regular schedule before it all goes to hell.

He picks his coffee cup off the counter in one hand and tucks his newspaper under his arm so he can locate his table. As he turns around, however, Jo lets out a shout that sounds very much like "Dean!" and something collides with Castiel's arm.

"Son of a-"

Castiel isn't really sure what happened, but his coffee is down the front of his white button up and there are ceramic pieces all over the floor. Everyone in the café is staring at him like he just walked on water, which he might have given how light headed he suddenly is.

He doesn't feel anything at first. He just stares back at the crowd in confusion.

"Oh god, Dean."

Castiel is certain God has nothing to do with this at all. Slowly his senses return to him and he begins to wish that they hadn't. His arm is on fire, covered in something heavy and brown that's running slowly around wrist and down to his elbow. He can smell the chocolate and he can feel the burn. But that's not all. There's a sharp stinging sensation underneath the burn, starting somewhere on his palm between his index finger and thumb. When he turns his hand over to survey the damage, he has to look away again.

There's a piece of ceramic lodged in his hand, pumping a greasy stream of blood through the thick chocolate. There's another long gash over the top of his forearm that starts from the knot of his bone at his wrist and tapers off at the freckle on the inside of his forearm. Castiel can only stare at the spotted pattern of red and brown on the stone floor while Jo rushes around the edge of the counter and the guilty party grabs at his arm. Castiel hisses at the contact and pulls back.

"Wait, wait. I'm just going to get the broken bits out…"

"Dean! You can't do that! He'll bleed to death. You're not supposed to remove it!"

Castiel dares to look up at the man that just turned his five minute breather into a three hour trip to the hospital and is less than impressed to find said 6 foot frat boy staring at him like he just ruined Christmas. Or maybe that stern expression is reserved for moments in which he must argue the legitimacy of a man's ability to bleed out from his thenar webbing.

This is Dean Winchester- who has never spent more than twenty minutes in a college classroom and most certainly had nothing to do with frats, not that Castiel knows this yet. All the businessman-turned-bloody-sunday knows is that Dean is a compact body of muscle dusted with freckles and topped with a pair of limerick eyes. He knows that the shine of the talisman that hangs around the other man's neck is the same as the glow on the brightest curves of Dean's hair. Dean is warm, like he's been out in the sunshine, and dresses in cools the ground him into reality. The leather of his jacket is worn down like it's been around for a while, probably passed down through the family. These are things that Castiel can appreciate more than a variety of dairy-free brownies or the musty scent of ink when he turns to the editorials, but right now his arm is on fire and Jo is dabbing at it gently with a wet cloth to get the chocolate off. It only stings more and brings another stream of blood to the surface of his cut. He might as well be in ribbons.

"You have to take him to the hospital, Dean." Jo is saying over the chorus of a metric song. "You have to take him because he needs stitches and I can't leave here and you don't have the insurance to cover an ambulance and don't you dare give me that look."

Dean is giving the poor girl his best "but-I-promised-Sammy-I'd-pick-him-up-from-the-library! (or something…)" look, which Castiel will come to recognize within the next month and a half as a signature one of dean's when he is eager to get out of a situation that makes him uncomfortable. He will secretly enjoy replying to it with a well placed smirk during their first get-to-know-the-novaks dinner, at least until Gabriel stares down his baby brother's newest fling and says "Well Dean-o looks like he could bite the pillow and take a few rounds, Cas." At which point, the youngest of the million Novak siblings will turn every shade of red and sweet, sweet Anna will "accidentally" dump her drink all over the offender's crotch.

All of this, however, does not keep Castiel from resenting the man before him for ruining any chance of getting his latest ad project done on time. And really, it had been Castiel's last chance to hod onto the remains of his fading job. He had never really gotten the knack for understanding the greater population of society ("But I don't understand how hip hop stars have anything to do with wet cat food…") and as a result, his concepts never made it past the doodle on napkin phase anyway. He'll get the unfortunate call while waiting in the emergency room only an hour later. ("I'm sorry, but we really needed someone we could count on for this. You're a good kid, but…") He will wish that he didn't have to interrupt Dean's nervous ramblings about his promising younger brother to accept the news of his own failure, but he'd like to at least have a chance in keeping a reference number on his resume since he'll be needing it again soon. In a week he'll be sitting at the hospital again, having the stitches taken out by a nurse that looks like she's about to pass out any second. Castiel will wonder if this is his life, if he was really and truly doomed to pondering his existence to the smell of amonia. He'll wonder if he'll have to call up Gabriel and strike up a deal to earn himself some couch space for an extended period of time. Then an unrecognizable name will call his phone and he'll listen to Dean begrudgingly try to offer some form of payment for the accident and Castiel will find himself asking about Dean's couch instead because he isn't sure he can get any lower than he already is and he'd rather chew off his own arm than wake up to a sticky lollipop stuck in his hair on a regular basis.

The café bell bids them farewell and the stranger named Dean, the one who Castiel is certain is the worst possible company for the 30 minute drive to the hospital, introduces Castiel to the only car he's ever seen in this decade with a cassette deck. "I know she's a bit rusty now, but I'm working to fix her up." Dean tells him, looking reluctant but proud. This is obviously something Dean has worked for-is still working for. Castiel finds it endearing but he doesn't say it out loud, not now and definitely not when he sits himself out on the stairs of their apartment in the middle of July the next year to sip on fresh iced tea and watch the shirtless Winchester dirty himself up underneath the Impala's hood. He instead says it by pressing his lips against Dean's shoulder when they're laid out together in the backseat, only the soft light of snow to watch over them. Castiel will forever joke that whenever they have sex there he can always smell the must of mold blowing through the heating system. Dean will insist that the smell is phantom and they'll both insist that they go another round just to make sure.

But Castiel doesn't even consider that future a possibility when Dean slides his first mixtape into the mouth of the console. He wants to take it back. He wants to tell Dean, no, it's ok… really. He'd rather just bleed out in front of Jo on the café floor. Maybe that'd be a more admirable use of his time than listing to Ramble On on repeat going 8,000 miles an hour with the understanding that he is certainly going to die. Castiel imagines that when they hit the guard rail it will be very much like the collision of their mugs, only instead of being stabbed through with a piece of cheap ceramic, he'll put his own head through the windshield of the dusty Impala and Michael will have to come identify the remains of his body. Castiel imagines that his brother would be twenty minutes late and would lecture his dead corpse about the importance of not inconveniencing others when they are very busy bathing in their gross income.

Castiel snorts and Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye.  
"Something funny, Cas?"

Cas. The nickname isn't his first, but it's certainly the most logical. He drinks it down like his first shot of hunter's helper, reluctantly and with an aftertaste, but he shakes his head in response because he's not ready to admit that he likes the way it rolls off Dean's tongue, as if they've known each other forever. When they have known each other forever, he draws it off of Dean's tongue himself.

"Oh God, Cas-"

"Cas, seriously man, Madonna?"

"Cas, come on, open the door please…"

"….Cas… you know I'm not good with words…" Which is Dean's way of saying "I love you" when they're both standing in the pouring rain on the side of the highway because the Impala is still a work in progress and really, It had sounded funny before they even hit the highway. He'll just smile and run his fingers over the Impala's wet hood, and then take Dean's ice cold hand and say. "Yes, Dean, I know." Which means "I love you too, you idiot" in a way that won't make Dean get the urge to run screaming.

And Sam will smile when he comes to pick them up, because he's always liked Castiel.

"He's got this sort of… otherworldly feel." He'll tell Dean over dinner. "he's too good for you."

"I like him. He gets real fired up when you point out how much of a flamer he is." Gabe will say loudly, so that Dean can hear him.

"I really don't know about this, Castiel." Lucifer will admit drunkenly at thanksgiving. "But he's good to you?"

"Well at least he's pretty." Anna will breath in the spring, watching the Winchesters argue over how to assemble the tent.

And Michael will toast to them at the wedding, all teary eyed and serious. "If he hadn't been so graceless, I wouldn't be telling this story today…"

Suddenly Castiel's own Café story will no longer be just that and the reason he hates them so much is not because of what they are, but what they never get the opportunity to be. He hates them because if he was to sit down and tell his own, it would end with him walking out of the building with a bloody hand and no job and he would never be able to tell anyone how beautiful Dean Winchester looks against the lights of the boardwalk Ferris wheel. He would never be able to tell anyone how Dean grips his hand tight the first time they have to take a cross-country flight, or how he never did sleep on Dean's couch, but Dean did more than once. He wants everyone to know that Dean sings in the shower, and he always forgets to salt the front steps when it's icy, and how he hums when he eats the first bite of pie.

There's something terribly depressing about stories that end in cafes.

Castiel Novak hates them because he simply isn't ready to let his end.

* * *

I don't really know the best way to relate this story to the song that inspired it, but it was also inspired by a story a coworker told me about another job she had where a server was carrying a plate of food and hit a counter causing the plate to shatter and slice up her hand and arm. So you get Destiel out of that. lol. I'm sorry? (naaaah)


End file.
